


Episode 73: Coruscant

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [73]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Coruscant, Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: "Nothing happens here that isn't supposed to." ~BeunIt's time to bring Cara back to her brother, but something is moving around in the dark depths of Coruscant
Series: Clan Meso'a [73]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1261364
Kudos: 2





	Episode 73: Coruscant

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been a while, but we're back! I'm probably going to post single episodes at a time as I'm dealing with some new health challenges. Thank you soooo much for the support during the break!

Goorva, the Rodian barman, slid a shot glass half full of golden liquid down the bar to a figure cloaked in the void left by a broken light. The band, tired and all but passed out drunk, wheezed out a jazz number too somber for its genre. No one seemed to mind, other than the Zabrak who stuffed a few napkins in his ears before slumping down into his booth in a hungover daze. Most of this level’s inhabitants were all that was left after a terror attack destroyed several local businesses. Most hadn’t recovered and those who still frequented the dingy, brown bar were mostly thugs for hire and those too poor to leave… except for the figure in the dark. Goorva wasn’t one to ask questions, but even he knew she wasn’t from around here. Her deep blue skin, the slight upturn of her nose, painted black lips, manicured nails, and glowing red eyes tended to stand out among his usuals. In stark contrast to tattered coats and grimy jumpsuits, she wore a floor length, black backless gown with gold trim around the high neckline; long, black sleeves poked out from underneath a voluminous, white fur cowl. Pearls dangled from each ear and rings glittered around the first joints of her slender fingers. She was poised on her chair like a Voractly ready to strike, her beautiful plumage a lure for an unsuspecting victim probably bleeding out in a nearby alleyway. Goorza was familiar with the smell of a recently fired blaster.  
“And stay out!” Chitri, yelled, shoving a frazzled looking human out the front door. “The nerve of some people!” she fumed.  
Goorva smiled and nodded dutifully at his wife as she came around the counter and grabbed the mug she’d been cleaning.  
“You’re going to wear down the glass if you keep rubbing it that hard,” he tentatively joked.  
“I’m going to wear down his hide if he keeps bringing spice in here!” she muttered, slamming the mug down on the table and turning to the mystery woman.  
She was dabbing her lips with a napkin, a compact mirror just visible in her hand. Goorva held his breath, wishing more than ever that he could just disappear; Chitri shook her head disapprovingly.  
“Ain't nowhere down here fancy enough for you to go around dressed like that,” she called down the bar, hands on her hips, “Who do you think you are? You’re bound to catch a cold walking around like that!”  
Snap, went the woman’s compact. She stowed it in a purse or pocket or something neither could see, unwound one leg from atop the other, swiveled slightly in her chair, and fixed them with her glowing, blood-red eyes. Chitri stood unaffected, but Goorva’s antenna twitched with alarm. He could tell she was sizing them up, searching them for weaknesses. The Varactyl was sure to pounce! She gracefully slid down for the chair and approached them. Goorva’s body grew numb as the light revealed her form emerging from the darkness...but the veil peeled back to reveal a kind, warm smile. Her eyes were soft and surveyed the barman and his wife with care, not malice. She came closer, her heels clicking against the metal floor. She reached behind her beneath the cowl; Goorva tensed up, but she merely pulled out a stack of credits.  
“Yes,” she said in a gentle, breathy voice, “I’m meeting an old friend. How do I look?”  
She raised her arms up to reveal her figure as she turned slowly on the spot. Chitri snorted, but her shoulders had relaxed.  
“You look fine, dear,” she said, uncrossing her arms, “I..I’m just-”  
“That man upset you, I know,” the woman put her elbow on the bar and rested her chin atop her knuckles, “The locals are growing desperate for credits. You really can’t blame him.”  
Chitri threw up her hands, “Of course I know that, but,” she gestured about the bar, “I mean look at us! We barely have enough patrons as it is. The last thing we want is an inquiry as to why spice sellers are stopping by.”  
The woman nodded sympathetically.  
“This is too much, dear,” his wife continued, looking down at the stack of credits in her hands.  
The woman closed Chitri’s hands around them and pushed them to her chest, “Take it, please? I left a dying man behind your bar, and it will start to smell.”  
The color drained from Chitri’s face, “A..a what?”  
The woman stood up straight and fussed with her cowl so it rested perfectly in the crooks of her arms, “A dead man,” she repeated as if she were discussing the weather, “Oh, but don’t worry. I left a trail of blood to the nearest sewer. He’ll be… gone within the hour.”  
The danger momentarily dissipated by her friendly demeanor crashed back against Goorva as he watched her leave. The scent of floral perfume followed in her wake, and the sound of her heels clicking against the floor died away when the door opened and the noise of speeders drowned them out. Once the door slid shut, Chitri raced into the back and tore open the rear door. Goorva clutched the counter as she screamed. Moments later, she returned and vomited into the mop bucket. 

The impenetrable walls of technology blocked all natural sunlight from this level, but that was the price you paid for living on Coruscant. One one hand, she was grateful for the reprieve from the sun and it’s penchant for giving most sentients, like her, premature wrinkles. Thankfully, her ride was waiting for her when she exited the bar. It was a sleek, egg-shaped craft with a flat bottom fitted with repulser lifts for a smooth ride. The exterior was reflective chrome while the interior was a plush velvet colored deep red with velvet covered panels concealing hololinks and consoles she’d need on the go.  
“Was your trip productive, Mistress?” asked the silver droid in the driver’s seat.  
“Very.” She tucked the end of her dress inside just before the door lowered shut. “Have my clients been appraised of my arrival time?”  
“Yes,” confirmed the droid, taking the small craft up from the trash littered street and into the air, “They are ready to receive you.”  
“Excellent. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” 

Each step felt like Beon was slogging through a dense bog with weights tied to his ankles. Judging by how pale Fent looked, he probably felt the same. Fallstra landed on level ten without any hiccups or too many questions asked. Turns out, telling the truth got you a lot farther than a made up cover story. Well, a little bit of the truth. The story was that they were fulfilling a bounty to return the long lost sister of a Coruscant aristocrat, but they never said she was dead. Customs seemed to buy it, but it helped that they’d unloaded all of Beun’s contraband-class trophies back on Dxun. Playing it straight wasn’t her thing, but they were on a core world now. They had to play by its rules. This being their first time here only made things worse. The trio studied up on the different gangs, arbitrary sectors, and even local politicians, but there was nothing to prepare them for the deep seeded unease of being near the Jetii seat of power. Chellin advised them to think of Coruscant like Nar Shaddaa, but to replace the Hutts and their enforcers with stuffy senators and mystics with laser swords. It helped in a way, but Beon found himself on edge from the moment he laid eyes on the metal sphere that was currently causing so many intergalactic problems.  
“Think we’ll see that army they cooked up?” Fent said over their closed channel.  
“I don’t think we’d miss them if we tried. Look,” Beun pointed to a trio of white-armored individuals talking to a very worried looking Cathar. “We should keep moving, though. What level are we headed to?”  
Beon pulled out a black holodisc and projected a small map of level ten. “We’re headed to the third level. Nearest elevators are over there,” He pointed to a queue of civilians and soldiers alike at the base of a hyperlift station set against a neon-sign covered wall. The advertisements varied from exclusive clubs to sporting events and beauty products.  
“Guess we’ll have to wait it out,” Fent sighed. He shifted under his cloak and reached up to his hood to make sure it was covering his helmet. “I feel so exposed.”  
The Twi’lek’s nodded, Beun making sure her lekku were still tucked beneath the folds of her poncho.  
Of the seventeen lifts, only nine were currently operational. It seemed like most were down for “scheduled maintenance”, one was stuck on level fifty-seven, and the other on the far end was sparking dangerously. The technicians alternated between furious hammering and extinguishing a fire inside the car itself. The trio chose lift number five as its queue was shorter and moving far faster than the others. They were behind a pair of Ithorians and their Mon Calamari friend, the latter glancing over his shoulder at them and the hovering casket every so often. With each glance, Fent’s tempter began to boil. Beun kept her hand in his throughout the silent exchange. There was no way all six of them plus the casket would fit in the hyperlift anyways.  
“Keep it together, riduur,” she kept saying.  
“I’m going to punch him, I swear if he looks back one more time-”  
“Shh,” Beon hissed. A soldier was walking by, surveying each person in line and passing the beam of a scanner over them. When it passed over the casket, he paused and read something on the scanner’s miniature display. He looked up at them.  
“My condolences to the family,” he said, “I thought Mandalorians were professionals.”  
“Sometimes,” Beun said before Fent could, “We aren’t given the whole truth before we take a job.”  
The soldier shrugged, “Guess we can’t all have it good. You there!” he called out to a Rhodian couple rushing up to the sixth hyperlift’s queue, “What part of an orderly line do you not understand?” He walked away, continuing to bark orders at the couple; Beun shook her head and tutted.  
“Can’t all have it good, huh?” she repeated, “If what he has is considered good, then I don’t want it.”  
Beon chuckled, but it was a tad forced on his part. Fent didn’t comment.  
Their wait for the hyperlift was almost thirty minutes due to the party in front of them heading down to the fifteenth level. The caution lights flashed briefly on the control panel, and an operator was jogging over when it righted itself. The Trandoshan hissed out a curse and trudged back to the maintenance booth. When the lift returned and the doors opened, Beun took the lead and guided the casket inside. It was a morbid maneuver, making sure Cara was out of the way enough for the three of them to squeeze in, but it had to be done. Between grease stains, dried chewing gum, and peeling spray paint from vandals, the casket wasn’t even the worst thing in there. Actually, judging by how sticky Fent’s boots felt as he shifted his weight, those might not have been grease stains. This would be a bad time to find out if we’re claustrophobic, Beon thought. If they were, no one mentioned it. With a clunky lurch and a low rumble, the lift began its ascent to level three with two stops, once on level six and again on level four. No one was able to get on, due to the casket taking up too much space and the escort of Mandalorians spooking anyone who might have tried taking the lift with a dead body.  
The doors hitched slightly when they reached level three, but the sight beyond them almost made Beun miss the abysmal ride. Instead of a metal platform speckled with trash and discarded food, level three was a metal platform with red carpet trimmed with gold embroidery that marked the queues and pathways leading to a walkway overlooking one of the many crevasses between building structures. A ship emerged from the dark below and took off close enough to the railing that nearby windows rattled. A few passersby were buffeted by the sudden gust of air, but most ignored it. Beun noted that the transients on this level were well dressed compared to level ten, but they weren’t the senators and business moguls she’d seen on the holonet. She heard that the higher the level, the wealthier the civilians became… meaning there would be far more soldiers on this level than there were below. Just as she thought that, a squad of six jogged by, the leader with a red stripe on his helmet.  
“In and out,” said Beon, as if to reassure himself.  
“Not looking for trouble, not causing trouble,” said Fent.  
“We’ll be fine,” said Beun, again taking the lead with the casket behind her, “We’re in the heart of the Core. Nothing happens here that isn’t supposed to.”


End file.
